


Midsummer Merriment

by EirianErisdar



Series: The Music of the Spheres [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bucket hats and aviators, Disabled Character, Fluff, Gen, Humor, In which Qui-Gon Jinn most definitely does not buy weed, Mute Obi-Wan Kenobi, Obi-Wan takes everything far too seriously, Our intrepid duo go to the beach and get into bucketloads of trouble, Qui-Gon jinn is a beach dad, Smol Obi-Wan, Spice is Nice!, because he is an adorable smol padawan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27525601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EirianErisdar/pseuds/EirianErisdar
Summary: Midsummer festival on the shore of Coruscant's Western Sea brings merriment and adventure. Featuring jellied Aqualish sea-lizards, a whole lot of sand, and unexpected sentiment. Set in the early days of Obi-Wan's apprenticeship.Originally posted in 2014, crossposted to AO3 November 12 2020.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn/Tahl (Star Wars)
Series: The Music of the Spheres [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2011618
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	1. Dubious Foodstuffs

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to FFN in June 2014 and now crossposted to AO3 in November 2020. This is set very early on in _The Silent Song_ , so Obi-Wan has yet to learn sign language here.

Monument Plaza _reeks_ of midsummer fever.

Set on Umate, the highest peak of Coruscant, the plaza holds a single pinnacle of black rock at its centre, the summit of Umate itself. This alone attracts hundreds of thousands of tourists, each touching bare stone for what perhaps might be the first and last time in their lives; Coruscanti do not know the true meaning of _ground._ On most days, Monument Plaza is busy enough; but the annual crowds of Midsummer Festival are a whole another matter entirely.

The hordes push and pull and flow about the pillared colonnades like a living river of sentient species, dancing with the quick-changing riptide of fevered emotion. In a corner, a pair of Nautolan parents soothe their screaming brood as a Graan toy-peddler seizes upon this chance to pile his wares upon them; a scant few paces away, two lovestruck teens peform a traditional Togrutan dance to the completely contrasting syncopated synth-chords that blast out of a six-foot tall subwoofer; there, weaving eel-like between the countless currents, a Zygerrian pickpocket plies his one-way trade; by the durasteel stage where some senator or another had murmured a word or two scant minutes earlier, a rowdy bunch of spice-traders move seamlessly onto the sixty-eighth verse of the popular space shanty _The Ballad of Captain Neo-Shadow_ , their song somewhat impaired by their various levels of inebriation.

And there, right at the centerpoint of the fault-lines in the Force: a hollering Twi'Lek food vendor, a serene Jedi Master, and rather confused padawan.

It is a scene primed for explosion; the Force shimmers with humor, and waits for the spark.

(:~:)

"Young man! May I interest you in a jellied Aqualish sea-lizard?"

Obi-Wan Kenobi barely refrains from recoiling at the glistening translucent _thing-on-a-stick_ that the middle-aged Twi'Lek street vendor shoves in his face. Newly minted padawan or not, Obi-Wan is a firm believer that duty has its limits – and he draws the line at _sea-lizards_ , thank you very much. As it is, he takes an involuntary step backwards, his short braid swinging as his back collides with something warm and solid. Heat flushes his face a moment later as two broad hands settles on his shoulders, steadying him.

A musical chuckle dissipates into the Force, deepening Obi-Wan's blush of mortification.

Qui-Gon Jinn seems wholly unruffled by his padawan's clumsy collision with his stomach, standing as firmly – and appearing no less imposing – as any one of the larmalstone statues that dotted the plaza around them. His voice is flawless velvet. "What do we have here?"

Eager to please his would-be customers, the vendor somehow further amplifies his voice to shout above the other twenty thousand or so people in plaza around them. "Jellied Aqualish sea-lizards!" he fairly screams in the Jedi Master's face. "Imported from Ando! The perfect midsummer snack for the peckish! Sir, may I interest you in sampling – Oh stars above, Master Jedi!" He gapes unashamedly at the sleek silver cylinder glinting at the edge of Qui-Gon's cloak, his eyes bugged in awed horror.

The corner of Obi-Wan's mouth twitches sardonically.

Qui-Gon – who had retained a diplomat's expression of pleasant interest throughout the street vendor's small speech – spares his padawan a single burning glance of warning before giving the vendor a conciliatory smile. "Two, please," he intones, cheerily ignoring Obi-Wan's look of betrayal. "May I inquire as to the cost?"

"No charge!" the Twi'Lek practically shouts, even as his eyes widen in panic. "In gratitude for, um, your security work here at the festival…and…ah, that is to say…I'm not going to be arrested, am I?"

"Have you done anything to warrant your arrest?" Qui-Gon returns coolly.

"No!" the sweating vendor yelps, a bit too quickly. "Here!" Two slimy, frozen forms speared on sticks are somehow shoved into the tall Jedi's hand a moment before their seller performs an excellent impression of a firebeetle melting back into its swarm.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrow in suspicion as he frowns at where the street vendor disappeared into the crowds of revellers. Unconsciously, he gives his end of the training bond a tug – he had been doing that quite regularly since it had formed, as though to reassure himself it was still there – only to start in surprise as his master responds with a rich laugh of amusement that echoes lightly in their shared mindscape.

"Fret not, padawan-mine," Qui-Gon chuckles. "That vendor is most likely a former black market dealer of some sort. Mostly harmless, now that he is pursuing a morally sound means of supporting himself. Eat, padawan. Three hours' worth of security duty must have made you hungry."

Obi-Wan's expression had remained vaguely doubtful, but it morphs quickly into apprehension when he is handed one of the dubiously edible sea-lizard kebabs. The creature had been jellied with webbed limbs and long tail set in strange positions, as though it had been caught mid-swim and flash-frozen as it wriggled pathetically to free itself.

It appears…revolting.

"To your good health, padawan," Qui-Gon says jovially, _annoyingly,_ as he tucks into his own serving with a horrible, squelching mouthful.

Obi-Wan, unfortunately, does not possess his master's durasteel stomach or… _refined_ …palate. Supressing his gag reflex, he cautiously rips off a leg between itching teeth and swallows the slippery limb whole.

Impossibly, it somehow tastes even _worse_ than it had looked. Obi-Wan finds himself suddenly grateful he cannot vocalise the words that rise in his gagging throat; _Gundark turd_ is the least offensive of the terms, and Qui-Gon is hardly one to take kindly to his rather explosive opinion of this…delicacy.

Qui-Gon takes kindly to his young, inexperienced, green-in-the-face apprentice and polishes off the second lizard with blatant relish.

Aware that even _watching_ sea-lizards being eaten somehow causes his stomach to flip uncomfortably, Obi-Wan focuses instead on the crowds around them, grasping for the vibrancy of the Force. His stomach still gives a rebellious flip, but a moment later, a familiar presence has materilised out of the cacophony of sound and colour, like a sudden nebula blossoming on a spinning map of stars.

Obi-Wan smiles in eager anticipation.

Alerted by the spike of mischief in his padawan's Force-signature, Qui-Gon turns, opens his mouth, and–

"Stars and galaxies, Qui, what are you _eating_?" Tahl Uvain's light voice takes on a lilting tone of disbelief.

Qui-Gon blithely swallows his last mouthful. "Aqualish sea–"

"No, I've decided I'd rather not know," the Noorian Jedi cuts him off. " _Do_ tell me you didn't drag your padawan into sampling this…specimen."

"Gag reflex training."

"Abuse of power," Tahl retorts.

Trying unsuccessfully to dampen his grin, Obi-Wan offers Tahl a deep bow, earning him a warm pat on the shoulder in return. Perhaps he should not have then pretended not to notice Qui-Gon's admonishing pull on their bond; Obi-Wan senses a brief flash of displeasure from the older Jedi before his padawan braid is caught in a firm, reprimanding tug. Qui-Gon Jinn is, apparently, perfectly willing to execute a physical reminder should a mental warning fail.

Much to Obi-Wan's gratitude, Tahl aborts the looming threat of war with the bland inquiry, "How was security duty?"

"We utilised it as a training opportunity," Qui-Gon supplies. "The Force is convoluted among such a large and diverse gathering; Obi-Wan did well in both widening focussing his awareness of our surroundings."

The unexpected praise sets a warm glow in Obi-Wan's belly.

He raises his head to find both Jedi Masters watching him strangely. It takes a moment for him to realise Master Uvain had spoken, and he had not responded. Yet another blush tinges his cheeks; they surely must have noticed his lack of mindfulness. He bows a quick apology and plasters his trademark, earnest, _I'm-willing-to-learn_ expression on his face. It is usually enough to mollify even the most severe of crèche masters, who find it somewhat…cute.

And it is apparently effective enough, for Tahl smiles and repeats gently, "Did you enjoy yourself, Obi-Wan?"

As he scribbles a quick answer onto the square of flimsy he always carries with him, Obi-Wan notices Qui-Gon's raised eyebrow. He makes a mental note that _earnest-open-cute_ look is apparently wasted on the tall Jedi.

_Yes, Master Uvain,_ he writes. The Aurebesh lettering flows out of his stylus like sable silk. _This was a new experience for me, and quite enjoyable. Were you assigned to the second security shift, Master?_

"Oh, no," Tahl answers, returning the flimsy to its owner. "I was fortunate enough to be skipped over for Festival security this midsummer. When I heard you two were assigned here, though, I thought I would bring a treat." A soft smile graces her features as her companions' Force signatures flicker with surprise. "Follow me," she says, her smile turning secretive as she turns to weave her way through the crowd.

As he paces quickly after Tahl, Obi-Wan prods at Qui-Gon's shields, and is somewhat gratified to sense that his master is just as unknowing as he is about this matter.

The lithe Noorian Jedi leads them to the edge of the plaza, where a number of crisply uniformed attendants oversee the most exclusive private-aircar parking spaces. Obi-Wan ignores the painfully bright line of speeders, searching for the subdued grey of an official Temple aircar – only for his jaw to drop open when Tahl halts by a four-seater open-top speeder painted an attractive shade of midnight blue. After a span of seconds, he snaps mouth shut again, and glances questioningly at his master.

Outwardly, Qui-Gon's aquiline features are serenely tranquil as ever; but a twinkle in his sky-blue eyes and the curve at the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

"Did you bribe old Half-Moonsing for this, Tahl?" he comments humouredly. "I can't imagine him assigning you the best speeder out of the transport pool for any other reason."

"I asked nicely," Tahl blithely replies. "You should attempt that once or twice, Qui. I _do_ wonder how you complete diplomatic assignments at times…thank you," she murmurs as she accepts the ignition chip from a servitor droid. The vibrant stripes of her green-gold eyes flash with delight as she turns to the other two Jedi. "Get in."

Obi-Wan notices Qui-Gon _very significantly_ does not pursue the matter any further. The next moment, the older Jedi has vaulted over the railing in one seamless movement, uncaring for the sudden drop between the duracrete dock edge and the hovering speeder. Tahl completes the jump with even more grace, folding herself into the pilot's seat with barely an effort. Obi-Wan pauses on the edge of the platform, a small frown creasing his forehead. There is something not quite… _right_ about this; the speeder is no doubt a beautiful machine, all sleek lines and glossy paint, but it is not _traditional,_ and certainly not _quiet_. Really, it is about as removed from Jedi reserve as transport goes, save for illegally-built pod-racers.

"Padawan?"

Qui-Gon's questioning gaze jerks the musing padawan out of his philosophical wanderings. Obi-Wan dithers for a moment, reaches into his pocket for flimsy and stylus, and–

"Qui, move over to the back," Tahl says suddenly. "Obi-Wan can sit by me."

"…I'm sorry?"

"I'm the pilot, and I say your padawan gets shotgun, so climb back there. Mind The Pot."

"The Pot?" Qui-Gon's cloak skirls in the wind as he leans over to peer into the back seat. Sure enough, stowed securely in the footwell is a large steel pot, with a separate hover-hamper tucked in next to it.

Obi-Wan grins. The large metal canister is a tradition of sorts between Qui-Gon and Tahl; once a week, one of the two Jedi Masters would cook dinner in said canister (affectionately and unimaginatively dubbed The Pot) and carry it over to the other's quarters, where they would eat together. Obi-Wan had been summarily included in this weekly ritual since the beginning of his apprenticeship to Qui-Gon.

"It's part of the surprise," Tahl says, smiling dangerously. "Qui, get a move on. Obi-Wan, step in."

To their credit, both male members of their little group comply immediately.

As Tahl guns the engine and sends them into a smooth arc down the side of Umate, Obi-Wan reflects that the soft synth-suede upholstery of the passenger seat is not so bad after all. And he cannot help but open his mouth in silent laughter as the first flicker of wind brushes through his hair.

The engine roars as the speeder slips into an empty airstream, entirely bypassing the official air-lanes. Obi-Wan shifts minutely in his seat, vague hope leaking past his shields…

Qui-Gon begins to chuckle. "Tahl…"

"Oh, shush. I have an official permit. You don't think I would indulge in illegality in front of your impressionable padawan, would you?"

_No,_ Obi-Wan contemplates, his own grin spreading. _That's solely Master Qui-Gon's privilege._ Bound by silence as Obi-Wan is, Qui-Gon could notpossibly have heard the thought; and yet a moment later, the Jedi's broad hand gently swats across the top of Obi-Wan's head. The sentiment must have transferred, somehow.

"Scamp."

The affectionate word is torn away by the increasing onrush of wind, drawn into laugh that echoes into the Force and flows through their veins in a sheer torrent of exhilaration.

The speeder dances on the wild, eddying air, down the falling levels of the Manarai Mountains, and on towards the glimmer of silver on the horizon that is Coruscant's Western Sea.

**END**


	2. Nerf Stew

To Obi-Wan's astonishment, Tahl does not turn the speeder off their self-made air lane at any distance down the durasteel-forested slopes of the Manarai Mountains; she holds their course straight and true as until at last the grey-silver towers melt away to a line of shockingly blue water on the horizon, edged with sand filtered to a fine, almost artificial gold.

Obi-Wan twists around in his seat to glance at his master. Qui-Gon sits serene as ever, long brown hair rippling out behind his head, but the curve about his lips grows increasingly prominent the closer they draw to the shoreline.

Tahl spins the speeder into a beachside docking space without a care for the alarmed shriek of the corresponding servitor droid. Qui-Gon is out of the speeder in one lithe vault; Obi-Wan quits his seat with more care, hooking his arms under the pot to hand it to Tahl and straightening to squint at the sun.

After a moment's quiet contemplation, he removes his boots.

Two steps forward, and there is no longer duracrete under his feet.

Obi-Wan curls his bare toes in the sand, and raises his head to the scent of salt in the air. Children of various species run wildly across the wide dunes, down towards the water of the Western Sea. In the distance, the sky-water divide is one unbroken line of brilliant cerulean, so incongruous on a planet with such jagged horizons as Coruscant. Obi-Wan feels a sudden thrill of freedom at the sheer _openness_ of it all, an urge to throw off tabards and outer tunics and leap for the cool water – but he reins in the un-Jedi-like urge and roots himself in place. Boots off in salty sand is _logical_. Running pell-mell into the water fully clothed is not.

Qui-Gon pushes past him barefoot, throws down cloak, 'saber, and outer clothing, and dives headfirst into the crashing breakers. When the Jedi master next surfaces, he is already a third of the way to the nearest floating platform, quite a ways out into the crashing waves.

Obi-Wan blinks once, but does not gape. He supposes he should be used to this by now.

"Follow him, will you, Obi-Wan?" Tahl says amusedly as she sets The Pot down in a sandy hollow. "Make sure he doesn't drown in his own exuberance."

Obi-Wan nods assent and begins to trot down to the water. Behind him, he hears Tahl mutter under her breath, "With the length of his hair, I'd wonder if he didn't strangle himself."

The waves rush to shore in ranks of crystal-topped aquamarine, each breaker tripping over an invisible line just a few paces away and diminishing into frothy silver webs that hiss over the sand to lap at Obi-Wan's toes.

He pauses for a moment. There is something terribly uncollected about simply…diving in.

But then Qui-Gon had, didn't he?

A student must emulate his master.

Obi-Wan wades into the warm waves and throws himself into battle against the tide.

He is instantly engulfed in the Living Force.

An explosion of bubbles escapes from his mouth as his eyes wrench themselves open. He floats for a moment, underwater, in a state of perfect astonishment as the Force lances into the sea through the shafting sunlight and paints the white sand below with gold. Clouds of silvery fish dart around him, staring back at him with globular eyes just as surprised as his are. He can sense with perfect aclarity two kilometers in every direction, here.

Obi-Wan nearly forgets to surface and breathe.

When he does, Qui-Gon is nowhere to be found.

Obi-Wan pauses for a moment, treading water, checking his position. He is halfway between the beach and the closest floating platform now, and the sea is crystalline. There technically should be nowhere for a six-foot, mullet-haired Jedi master to hide. Or shield, for that matter.

A hand closes around his ankle and drags him down into the sea.

Obi-Wan's silent squeak is lost in a cloud of bubbles. He fights ferociously and not at all fairly, and is rewarded with freedom.

Disoriented, he surfaces nonetheless, spluttering, to face a grinning Qui-Gon Jinn.

Obi-Wan's scowl must be quite something, because Qui-Gon's smile widens further. The fact they are bobbing on the surface of the waves makes it somehow even more infuriating.

"You could not sense me, padawan-mine?" Qui-Gon says. There is a lilting tease to the edge of his voice.

Obi-Wan raises a damp eyebrow, and feels for the currents around them.

_Ah. Perfect. That one there, if nudged with the Force-_

Qui-Gon makes a motion with his right hand, just under the surface of the water.

A freak wave rears out of Obi-Wan's right and swamps him with a metre of crystalline liquid.

Obi-Wan emerges fighting. He knows one of his master's quirky teaching methods when he sees one, and he will not back down from this challenge. He gives as good as he got, and is gratified by Qui-Gon's mane of brown hair disappearing in a solid smack of water into bearded face.

The Force builds with each surge of the sea, and explodes into laughter with each new spray of seawater. The water around the two Jedi soon evolves into an artificial maelstrom, churning white with warring currents. Obi-Wan's braid flings about his face, weighted with brine like a salted whip; Qui-Gon's earthen brown mane is soon sopping, too.

Qui-Gon emerges victorious, and dunks his padawan quite firmly into the water again.

Obi-Wan pancakes with a giant splash and uses a convenient wave to return the favour.

Qui-Gon somehow manages to dodges, and the whip of water continues forward unchecked to–

_Floopshhh._

"Oh dear," Qui-Gon murmurs, somehow managing to skid backwards while treading water. Obi-Wan glances around his master's bulk, widens his eyes, and ducks back to use Qui-Gon as a human shield.

Tahl Uvain narrows green-gold eyes at the pair of them from under a soaked mass of red-brown hair. Water drips off her golden skin.

"Boys."

Obi-Wan does his best impression of a half-bow while treading water. Qui-Gon appears as though he is endeavoring to look innocent.

Tahl grins wickedly, and drenches Qui-Gon with a wave before turning tail and making for shore in smooth, powerful strokes.

Qui-Gon comes up spluttering something that sounds suspiciously like _blast that woman_ , and takes off after her.

Obi-Wan follows at a sedate pace, grinning to himself as he slices through the warm Coruscant sea.

(:~:)

The nerf-stew tastes even better than usual, spooned up with flatbread held in salty fingers.

Obi-Wan holds his towel around his shoulders with one hand and uses the other to lift a piece of stew-soaked flatbread to his mouth. The result is messy, but he does not think it matters here.

From where is sprawled on the sand, Tahl takes a huge bite of her own serving. Stew drips down her chin.

"Mm," she says. "Gehmeahnaking, Quay."

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow at her and hands her a paper napkin without comment. She accepts it, but not without swatting him with it first.

Obi-Wan swallows his last bite and decides to allow himself a moment to enjoy the warm fullness in his stomach. The sun is warm, but not scalding, and the gentle cadence of the waves rises behind him. It is quite a nice present moment to be in.

A voice over his head. "Ice cream, padawan."

Obi-Wan turns to his master, blinks, and tilts his head in question.

"You are allowed certain indulgences only because it is midsummer's day, young one. Here," – Qui-Gon hands him a credit chip – "Get yourself a tooth-rotting treat. I know you can't have had one before."

Obi-Wan accepts the credit chip with wariness. The Temple strictly regulates its foods – he has heard of confectionery before, and even something as rare and little-tasted as chocolate – but he has never heard of this _ice-cream_ before. It sounds somewhat strange. Ice is frozen water, and cream is semi-solid. What would be the point of making cream further solid?

He notices Tahl looking at him with a small smile. The Noorian Jedi levers herself up on one elbow and jerks her head towards a low-roofed stall a couple dozen metres down the beach.

Obi-Wan sets off on his mission, determined.

Qui-Gon sighs as he watches his padawan's straight-backed walk. "Must he be so serious with even these things?" he murmurs, brushing sand absent-mindedly off his crossed legs.

"He's apprenticed to you. Did you think he would be any different?" Tahl laughs.

He smiles down at her. "Indeed. He still has much to learn."

"I'm thinking of taking on one of my own," she says, pensively.

A chuckle. "I knew you would be bored, Tahl. Which initiate was fortunate enough to have caught your attention?"

"Shh. Surprise. For Obi-Wan."

"Ah."

Two dozen paces away and quite out of range of hearing, Obi-Wan nears his mission location, and is determined to succeed.

He pauses at the counter and peruses the multicoloured selection displayed there. Already, he is confident. This should not be difficult. There are enough options that pointing and gesturing should be enough. He need not resort to flimsy. Obi-Wan looks up, smiles politely, and raises a hand.

But then the shopkeeper speaks.

"Welcome, kid," The gruff Twi'Lek shopkeeper chortles down at him. "You'll be wanting some for your parents over there, too?"

Obi-Wan's brain short-circuits.


	3. Muja-flavoured Spice

" _Welcome, kid. You'll be wanting some for your parents over there, too?"_

It is a perfectly normal question, stated by a perfectly friendly shopkeeper, about a perfectly innocuous subject: Ice cream.

Obi-Wan forgets how to think.

The shopkeeper is still smiling down at him in a grandfatherly sort of way, probably taking the Obi-Wan's blank expression as shyness, and not blind panic.

Obi-Wan's brain approaches this new problem in a completely logical and utterly automatic train of thought.

_Parent (noun): Father or Mother. Units of a family. Responsible for the care of their children._

_Family (noun): A basic social unit consisting of parents and their children._

What does that mean, then?

Junior padawans are simply not _equipped_ for this.

As the scientific, literal part of his brain seems to offer no means of escape, Obi-Wan allows the social-diplomat part to take over instead. He points at a tub of Muja-flavoured ice cream and holds up three fingers.

The shopkeeper grins widely, headtails undulating as he reaches for a scoop. "Good kid. Your parents'll love it. Will that be in cones or in cups?"

Obi-Wan takes a wild guess as to what that means and points at a triangular biscuit-like object with an even, checkered surface.

"Cones are a credit extra each. That alright with you?"

Obi-Wan nods, and watches with fascination as the shopkeeper deftly scrapes a shallow scoop across the surface of the tub, peeling up rich layers pale pink…stuff. The resulting large spheres are pressed into the 3-dimensional biscuit holders, and placed in a paper rack.

"That will be twenty-one credits, thank you."

The credit chip is handed over. There is a bright, cheery _beep_ as the shopkeeper scans it.

There is a pause. The shopkeeper's eyes widen.

Obi-Wan quells his impulse to fidget. His mind flips madly. _Is the chip dysfunctional? Are there not enough credits?_

The shopkeeper holds out the credit-chip as though it is something fragile. His headtails are twitching as Obi-Wan accepts it.

"That's quite a tidy sum you've got there," the Twi'Lek says, oddly. "You don't…I mean, I didn't think, because of the way you're dressed. Are you royalty or something?"

Obi-Wan starts, shaking his head emphatically.

The shopkeeper suddenly blinks, as if catching himself. "Sorry," he mutters. "None of my business." His smile returns as he hands Obi-Wan the paper rack of cones. "You'd better take that to your parents before it melts."

Obi-Wan inclines his head and carefully balances the rack in his hands as he navigates his way back to Qui-Gon and Tahl.

Both Jedi masters seem to have picked up the uncertainty around his Force-signature. He is met with inquisitive glances.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan," Tahl says as she accepts his offering.

"Thank you, padawan." Qui-Gon easily takes both cone and credit-chip. Obi-Wan watches as his master stows the chip away in his boot. His _boot._

 _A tidy sum of money,_ the shopkeeper had said. Given that…the chip most likely contains their entire mission fund for the next year.

That chip is now wedged between Qui-Gon's stocking and boot.

Sometimes Qui-Gon Jinn does things that Obi-Wan cannot fathom.

But their ice creams are melting, so Obi-Wan chooses to ignore the masters' questioning expressions behind a veil of curiosity over his serving of ice cream. The first bite sends frozen lightning up his jaw, and he clenches his eyes shut against a sudden ache behind them. It is like the front of his brain has frozen over.

Strangely enough, that does not discourage him from continuing to sample it. The blazing afternoon sun soon necessitates frantic efforts to consume the small, cold mountain before it collapses in the heat.

Obi-Wan soon finds himself with a pleasantly cooled stomach, staring at empty, sticky hands.

Qui-Gon and Tahl have somehow escaped such indignities, so he goes down to the water to rinse his hands alone.

The cool breakers have barely washed over his palms before a sudden voice breaks into a whisper behind him.

"Hey, kid, looking for some spice?"

Hands dripping water, Obi-Wan twists around in his crouch to find three teen boys of different species, grinning down at him from the half-circle in which they have trapped him in.

Obi-Wan is about to reach to his belt for his flimsy in order to reply that _no, thank you, I have already had a very-well flavoured lunch_ – and then he spots the plastifilm-wrapped packet in one of the older boys' hands.

Oh. Not that spice. _The other_ spice.

He channels what he knows of the behaviour of a truant youth – which is admittedly not much – and shakes his head, smiling in a cocksure but non-challenging manner. Or so he hopes.

"Hey, no worries. Tell us if you have any friends who are interested, yeah?"

Obi-Wan nods easily as he straightens, and one of them claps him on the shoulder good-naturedly before sidling off to the next promising-looking buyer.

The waves wash over Obi-Wan's feet, leaving them alternately warm and cold as he watches them zero in on a girl a little younger than Obi-Wan. A few moments later, she folds something into her tunic and one of the boys puts something else in his pocket. They stay there for a moment, talking and laughing, before the group breaks up and the three boys go elsewhere.

It continues, and looks to all the world like youths socializing.

_Hm. Spice dealers. And dealing to younger teens, no less._

"Padawan."

Obi-Wan nearly slips down into the wet sand at the rumble of his master's voice. He rights himself hastily, ears burning.

Qui-Gon gives him a perceptive look.

Obi-Wan scribbles a line onto his flimsy, thrusts it into Qui-Gon's hands, and points in the direction of the three spice dealers.

The tall Jedi master peruses the flimsy for a moment, glances at the dealers, and then back at Obi-Wan again. His lips curve in what can only be described as a smirk.

Obi-Wan feels a thrill of anticipation. The Jinn-smirk is rarely seen, except when Qui-Gon has an _idea._ Not just any idea, but one that probably violates a dozen Order mission procedures.

"Come," Qui-Gon says, climbing back up the beach towards their little spot.

Tahl seems not at all surprised when her counterpart launches into his plan without even an introductory explanation. She returns Qui-Gon's smile with a barely-suppressed grin of her own, clarifies her role in the process, and begins packing up their belongings.

"Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan trots after his master as Tahl hefts The Pot onto her hip and carries it in the opposite direction, back towards their airspeeder.

Qui-Gon's long legs eat up the distance to the line of tourist shops halfway down the beach. It does not seem to matter that he is barefoot, dressed sloppily in half-damp inner tunics and untucked standard-issue trousers; he walks with confidence and purpose.

They stop by a stall covered from floor to ceiling in eye-wateringly bright tourist clothing. The Dressellian shopkeeper stares at them as they approach.

"Hello," Qui-Gon says, drawing his lightsaber out of his sleeve and placing it on the counter. "We need to borrow a few things, if you don't mind."

The Dressellian's bulbous eyes widen. "Master Jedi!" he exclaims, still staring at Qui-Gon's lightsaber. His eyes slide to Obi-Wan and rest on the braid behind his ear.

Qui-Gon motions for silence. "Covert mission. I'm sure you understand."

"Of…of course! Help yourselves, I'll just– uh…take a break." The shopkeeper scurries off, pulling down the shutters of the shopfront as he goes.

In the slatted half-light, Qui-Gon turns towards the walls, the glint in his eyes only visible when the bars of dusty light flick across them. He taps a finger against his lips contemplatively, and then reaches for something on the wall.

"This will do for you, I should think."

Obi-Wan gapes at the item of clothing presented to him.

A lurid orange, short-sleeved shirt, made of material so thin the gaudy dye is clearly visible. There are vague, comical pictures of thranctills painted in bright purple over the whole thing, from collar to buttoned edges.

"Quite glaring, I agree," Qui-Gon says cheerfully, pulling his catatonic apprentice's arms through the sleeves. "But that's the point."

Obi-Wan stands, frozen, as Qui-Gon selects a neon-green shirt painted with vivid leaves of yellow and blue, and the words _SPICE IS NICE!_ plastered across the buttoned front. The Jedi master pulls it on eagerly, creasing the collar _just so._ That done, he rolls up his trouser-legs to just below his knees, and does the same to Obi-Wan's.

Qui-Gon looks down at himself and then at Obi-Wan, makes an impatient noise, and opens a glass-fronted cabinet. The next moment, Obi-Wan blinks as something is slid onto his face.

"These are called aviators," Qui-Gon says. He smushes a hat onto Obi-Wan's head. "And this is a bucket-hat. Don't ask."

Obi-Wan stares as his master shakes out a pair of _aviators_ for himself, too. A quick search of the counter drawers reveals a pack of stiklii gum. Qui-Gon crams a stick into his mouth and gives one to Obi-Wan, too.

Qui-Gon gives the both of them one more critical glance, and seems to be satisfied with the result. He pulls his apprentice towards the full-length mirror in the corner.

"Perfect," Qui-Gon grins.

Obi-Wan gawks at the two figures in the mirror. The orange of his shirt clashes beautifully with the green of Qui-Gon's. They stare at themselves from behind the wide, tinted lenses of their sunglasses. The bucket-hat is every bit as horrendous as it sounded, though it does hide his padawan braid.

"You forget they have already talked to you," Qui-Gon chides when he notices Obi-Wan's frown. "You must not be recognised as anything but a clueless tourist."

Qui-Gon bundles their inner tunics into a corner and tugs him outside. Obi-Wan follows automatically, as though he is dreaming.

The three spice-dealers are still there, working their trade.

Qui-Gon saunters up to them, chewing noisily. Obi-Wan attempts to imitate his master's easy amble, and hopes it does not look too fake.

"Hey, there," Qui-Gon says, pitching his voice to a mid-rim drawl. "We're a bit lost, I'm afraid. Do you mind giving us some directions?"

"Not at all," one of the dealers replies easily, though the wariness in his expression rather betrays him.

"Which way to the tourist information centre?" Qui-Gon punctuates each word with a jaw-cracking snap of stiklii gum.

The dealers relax under the general air of laid-back cluelessness Qui-Gon exudes. As they point out directions, Obi-Wan ambles pointlessly behind them, as though bored.

A well-faked trip, and Obi-Wan falls heavily against one of the spice-dealers. Credits spill out of the young Nautolan's pockets as they both hit the sand.

"Hey!" the dealer shouts. "Watch it, kid!"

"That's an awful lot of money you got there," Qui-Gon comments.

"We run one of the stalls over th- _oomph!_ "

The latter half of that sentence is lost as Obi-Wan, in the pretense of trying to get up, careers helplessly into the speaker and knocks him into the dunes, too.

Plastifilm packets cascade onto the sand. A few crack open, releasing the unmistakable stink of low-grade Spice into the midsummer air.

The five of them stare at the pile for a moment.

"You must sell some very special merchandise at that stall of yours," Qui-Gon says off-handedly.

Obi-Wan discovers he is now the recipient of three sets of murderous glares. He rises and takes this opportunity to raise his aviators just a little, grinning at the three teens in a sheepish _you-told-me-to-bring-you-people_ way.

"You!" One of them shouts. "You wouldn't buy!"

A crystalline laugh rings through the air.

All five males turn in place, and are met with a sight both beautiful and terrifying.

Tahl Uvain advances towards them, clad in full Jedi regalia. Her boots impact the sand soundlessly, but the pennant of her cloak sweeps over the dunes behind like a darkened storm-front. Her eyes are pools of green-gold fire above a wicked smile.

The three spice-dealers stare at her face for a moment, and then all zero in like flies at a bug-zapper to the lightsaber at her belt. Immediately, they turn pale.

"Thank you for spelling that out so nicely," Tahl says, flicking off her comm-recorder. "I had you on possession and possible business without a license, but then you went and admitted to dealing to underage sentients, too! It'll make everything so much more efficient."

One of the dealers breaks free of his reverie and attempts to run. He gets exactly two paces in before running into six feet of neon-green shirted Jedi master.

The other two seem to finally understand what has happened, and begin to whimper.

Tahl beams at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. "My boys," she says happily, "That was fun. Let's do that again."

Obi-Wan looks between the two older Jedi, amused.

Tahl's voice breaks him out of it again. "But what in the stars do you have on your _head_ , Obi-Wan?"

(:~:)

The journey back to the Temple is tranquil, the silence of contentment filling the little speeder.

Obi-Wan leans back against the plush seat, The Pot secure in the seat beside him. Qui-Gon pilots from the front, aviators clashing incongruously with his Jedi tunics. Tahl has slid down in the front passenger seat, her hair spread out to dry on the wide headrest as she props her boots up on the dashboard before her.

The sun is setting on the Western Sea to their left, and everything is gloriously warm. The colossal sundial of Coruscant's towers sends massive bars of alternating gold and shadow lancing across the airspace.

Obi-Wan slides a pair of aviators over his eyes and wraps his cloak firmly around himself. He senses Qui-Gon twist around to check on him, but he has already surrendered his hold on the world and dropped into sleep.

The last sunlight of midsummer's day slips below the horizon as the Jedi turn away from the shore and ride the air currents home.

**END**


End file.
